All I Need
by foreverwriting9
Summary: This isn't how it's supposed to happen. She's supposed to be there. To stop him, to save him, because that's who they are.
1. Chapter 1

**So this happened. I've never written a story quite like it, so bear with me. And yes, there will be a second part to this. I'm writing it now.**

* * *

_The water is rising on a river turning red,_

_It all might be okay or we might be dead._

_If everything we've got is slipping away,_

_I meant what I said when I said until my dying day._

_I'm holding onto you holding onto me,_

_Maybe it's all gone black but you're all I see,_

_You're all I see._

**Mat Kearney, 'All I Need'**

XXX

They're about to break through the door of Red John's warehouse with an entire SWAT team at their backs when Lisbon's stomach suddenly drops. She's running on adrenaline and four hours of sleep, so she doesn't think much of it, simply grits her teeth and then pushes the funny feeling away. That is, until the ache spreads into her chest and digs in right beneath her ribcage.

Cho stops what he's doing. "You okay, Boss?" His voice is quiet and half-muffled by the sound of gravel under their feet, but Lisbon still hears him.

"Yeah," she chokes out, ignoring his unconvinced look. "Yeah, I'm fine."

He opens his mouth to say something, but then the warehouse door splinters open and they are rushing forward into the shadowy darkness of an unused loading bay. After a few moments of adjusting to the gloom, the SWAT team moves to the point position, running ahead and searching for any sign of the man they now know to be Red John. They make it halfway through the warehouse before the heaviness of copper coats their tongues.

The ache in Lisbon's chest expands at the taste, and she can't _breathe_. She stops moving and presses a fist into her vest. This time, it's Rigsby who shoots her a worried glance.

"Boss-"

She waves a hand dismissively at his unfinished question. "I'm fine."

He gives her a small nod, but doesn't move away from her side. "Everything's going to be all right," he murmurs, so low that Lisbon almost misses the words. She shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably, trying to look normal, trying to calm her stuttering heart.

Then the sound of a gunshot rips through the eerie stillness of the warehouse.

Lisbon's gaze snaps to a nearby window and out toward the car where they left Jane to wait.

His seat is empty.

"Dammit, Jane," she swears, and her stomach twists again. He couldn't have _possibly_-

Lisbon cuts off that train of thought and tightens her grip on her gun. _She told him to stay in the car._ But when has that ever meant anything to him? Next to her, the radio on Rigsby's hip crackles to life. The words _male civilian_ burst through the static, and then Lisbon is gone, running between crates and officers, her pulse pounding away in her ears.

He couldn't have killed Red John, because this isn't how it's supposed to happen. She's supposed to be there. To stop him, to _save_ him, because that's who they are. He is Jane and she is Lisbon, and sometime in the last decade that started to _mean_ something.

She can't arrest him, she realizes suddenly, emotion punching through her stomach so hard she almost stops running. She always thought that she would be strong enough, righteous enough, to arrest him if need be, but that doesn't seem to be the case anymore. (She is weak and in love, her whole world nothing but shades of grey and the blue of Jane's eyes now.)

A hand reaches out and grabs the front of her vest, jerking her to a stop.

"Agent, you need to slow down." The SWAT man's voice is calm and soothing, but Lisbon just stares at him, bewildered and unable to think beyond _Jane_,_ Jane_,_ Jane_.

"Jane," she gasps, pulling the man's hand off of her. "Where's Jane?"

He frowns. "Who?"

She pushes past him and catches a glimpse of a smiley face on the wall in the next room. "He's my partner," she says over her shoulder as she moves toward the room. "My-"

The words die in her throat.

This is so much worse than having to arrest him.

There's too much blood, and a part of her knows that she can't save him now. (But a desperate, irrational part of her wants so desperately to _try_.)

"Jane?" she says, voice hoarse and terrified as she kneels beside his body. His blood seeps through her pants, but she doesn't move. They're partners, and he deserved so much more than this. "Dammit, Jane." His name cracks in her mouth and her vision blurs as she reaches for his wrist. Her fingers meet blood and ragged flesh, and Lisbon has to choke back the sob that rises from her chest.

"I was supposed to save you," she says, grasping onto the buttons of his vest. "And then-" She stops, because she doesn't know what she expected to happen then and it's pointless to wonder now. Her gaze snags on the other body laying a few feet away.

It's Red John, his head a bloody pulp, but Lisbon feels no sense of victory, just a hollow, helpless pain that catches in the back of her throat. (_This wasn't how it was supposed to happen_.)

She wraps one bloody hand around the cross at her neck and lets the other drift over Jane's curls.

_Holy Mary, mother of God-_

XXX

The next few days are a blur.

The hospital. Incident reports. Soft voices. The _funeral_.

She doesn't remember much of the funeral. There was the blazing sun and empty chairs and the sound of someone crying, and sometimes, she can still picture the lightning white flowers she placed on his grave.

They have to start solving murders again too soon and Lisbon slowly starts to despise everything around her. Every aspect of work is tinged with Jane's snide comments or his laughter and it eats away at what little strength she has left.

And then the coroner finally releases both autopsies from the Red John takedown and Lisbon breaks all over again.

Jane's autopsy reports that his wounds appeared to have been self-inflicted, and when they inspected the razor that was used to kill him, they found only his fingerprints.

Lisbon doesn't have the resiliency left to even try to hate him. She just misses him. And when the second autopsy report comes back with the finding that a self-inflicted GSW was what finally took down California's most notorious serial killer, Lisbon locks herself in her office for hours, trying to convince herself that one day, everything might be okay again.

(But the truth hurts, and really, none of this was worth it.)

XXX

Lisbon takes a month off of work after that and tries to hide from the world.

She sees Jane everywhere, hears him whispering words into her ear, and she's torn between savoring these illusions and forcing them to stop, because they are all she has left of this brilliant, frustrating man who was (above all else) her friend. (But every time she sees his fractured blue eyes and lopsided smile in a stranger another piece of her heart shatters.) She refuses to visit his grave, because that would make it all too real, and she hates that she feels like a widow, _because she's not_.

The team visits her almost daily. Usually individually, always with food. They talk about mundane things. The weather, Ben's most recent words. They never mention work or Jane.

Van Pelt's the one who finally brings him up.

They're sitting on Lisbon's porch quietly eating takeout and watching the sun climb into the sky. Halfway through a carton of sweet and sour chicken, Lisbon realizes that this is her first summer without Jane. She bites the inside of her cheek and tries to stop the sudden flood of memories. The sunlit stakeouts, the stops at ice cream stands throughout all of California, the cool of the air conditioning as they bickered in her car.

She has this brief, vibrant picture of Jane chasing fireflies through a crime scene, and then a car alarm blares, dragging her back to the present.

Van Pelt is watching her steadily. "You should visit him," she says eventually, her voice soft and careful.

"He's dead." It's the first time she's said it out loud, and Van Pelt flinches at the words.

"But maybe it would help-"

Lisbon looks at her wearily. "No." Nothing will ever fix the ache in her chest.

Van Pelt nods her understanding and they lapse back into silence.

An hour later, after Van Pelt has said goodbye and promised to be back in a few days, Lisbon grabs her keys off the counter and slides into the driver seat of her car. It takes her twenty minutes to reach the cemetery and five to find where he's buried, and then she just stands in front of the grey granite, trying not to think about how his eyes crinkled when he laughed.

The words just tumble out.

"I took off work," she says. "A month that's almost up, and I'm terrified to go back because I can't imagine walking through the doors and not seeing you. I don't want to sit in my office and stare out into the bullpen at your empty couch. I don't want to wander into your attic and not find you there. I don't want to forget-" She chokes on the rest of the sentence, swiping quickly at the moisture on her cheeks. Taking a deep breath, she starts again. "Could you do one last magic trick for me?" she asks. "I'm so...I'm just lonely, Jane, and you fixed it before." She pauses, pressing her fingers into the grooves of his name on the headstone. "I'd like you to fix it again," she whispers.

She prays for him then, even though the words are jagged in her mouth, and she knows Jane would mock her mercilessly, because _when you're dead you're dead, and until then, there's ice cream._

XXX

When the month is up, Lisbon goes back to work.

The whole floor wants to get rid of his couch, but Lisbon convinces them to keep it. Without Jane's couch, the bullpen would feel empty, less like home, and she doesn't want to lose another piece of him. (Sometimes, after the team has left for the night, she ventures out and sits on his couch, trying to remember every moment, every word. A part of her realizes that she is stuck reliving the past, too in love to let it go, and that it is ruining her life. She doesn't particularly care.)

She does bring herself to throw out the remains of his tea though, because every time she makes a cup of coffee the smell is there, lingering. But that's _his_ smell, and it just feels so wrong that it should exist without him.

Three months after her return, she gets shot in the line of duty.

That's how she ends up laying awake in a hospital bed at three in the morning, alone and delirious with pain. (It's also how she sees Jane again.)

She hits the button on the morphine drip and closes her eyes for a moment, desperate for sleep. Distantly, she hears the door to her room open and then there are fingers tapping their way along her wrist. She jerks awake and finds him standing there, a little bit scruffier, his eyes sad in the darkened room.

"Hello, Teresa."

"_Jane_." She reaches for him, her hand catching on his sleeve and curling into the fabric. She needs to touch him.

He's warm. So warm and alive that it makes her bones ache and the hole in her chest throb. Jane gives her a small smile, but his eyes don't crinkle the way they used to, _before_. "I heard you got shot," he says softly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed, "and I wanted to make sure you were okay."

Lisbon watches him, too exhausted to do anything but stare at him and trace the sadness through the lines of his face. She needs to remember all of this for the bad days, the days she can't picture his smile or recall the exact shade of his eyes. Jane notices her hungry gaze and reaches forward to brush the hair away from her feverish cheeks, slowly tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. Lisbon can feel a sob building in the back of her throat at the careful gesture. _She misses him so much_.

He leans back slowly, staring at her as though he too is trying to memorize every contour of her face, and he looks so impossibly mournful that it breaks her heart all over again.

"Maybe I won't leave just yet," he says softly.

She tangles her fingers with his, smiling at the taste of hope that's resting on her tongue. "I'd like you to stay, Jane."

He squeezes her hand. "Then I'll stay."

She wants to talk to him, to tell him about everything that's happened, about how all of it's wrong now that he's gone. But with his hand heavy in hers and his steady breathing nearby, Lisbon soon falls asleep, more warm and content than she's felt in _weeks_.

She dreams of vivid sky blue and a long, perilous mystery, and somewhere in the middle of this never ending dream, Jane shows up with a needle and thread and stitches her back together.

When she wakes up the next morning, the hole in her chest hurts less and an origami frog sits propped up on the pillow beside her.

XXX

At first, she thinks the frog in the hospital was a coincidence, but then they start popping up other places. Inside her coffee mugs, her desk drawers, and eventually right beneath her front door. So she begins thinking maybe it's some sort of sick joke, because every time she finds one of the paper creatures, her heart skips a beat and she's suddenly back behind a desk watching Patrick Jane place an origami frog in front of her, an apology in his eyes. It's cruel, and she wants it to stop.

Lisbon reaches her breaking point when she finds one sitting on the comforter of her bed. She grabs a pen and picks the little animal up, careful not to crush it in her palm. _Please stop_, she writes in bold letters and then places it back where she found it.

Suddenly uncomfortable in her own room, she heads back downstairs, grabs her car keys, and makes her way to the only other place she's ever felt at home.

When she walks into her office, the bullpen is empty, the only light in the space coming from a lamp on Van Pelt's desk. Lisbon lets the door swing shut behind her and then moves toward her desk, reaching for a folder of unfinished paperwork.

Sitting on her stapler is another paper frog, two words scrawled on its back.

_I can't._

The handwriting is unmistakably Jane's.

She's standing with her back to the door, shaking and confused, so she never sees him come in.

"Hello, Lisbon." It's the voice from the hospital, it's _his_ voice, and her breathing hitches. (She's spent hours trying to remember his intonation, the comforting lilt of his words, because she never thought she would hear it ever again. And here it is.)

She spins around to face him, and the way he is leaning in the doorway, the shadows playing across his face, causes something heavy to settle in her chest. It feels so much like old times for a moment, like nothing has changed.

He gives her a small smile. "Aren't you going to say hello, dear?"

"You son of a bitch," is all she can get out properly, but it sounds weak and venomless even to her own ears.

His smile widens to a full-blown grin, and then he's taking two big steps forward to wrap her in a hug. "That's no way to talk to your partner," he whispers into her hair.

She pulls away quickly and punches him in the shoulder, hard. "Don't even talk to me about _partners_, Jane. You...you _died_. I was there. I had to wash _your_ blood out of my clothes. I went to _your_ funeral. I mourned _you_. And now you show up here, talking about partners and...This was nothing but another con again, wasn't it?" she asks, gripping onto the edge of her desk as the realization hits her, and she can't believe he did this to her _again_. They were supposed to be trusting each other. "You fucking broke my heart, Jane." (_For the hundredth, thousandth, millionth time_.) Her voice cracks, but she will not cry. Not in front of him. "You made me miss you, when this was nothing but another ruse. Another game." Lisbon pauses, sucking in a painful breath. "If we were really partners you would have protected me from all of this misery. You would have told me the truth, and we would have done whatever needed to be done _together_."

Jane takes a step toward her, his eyes dark. "I _was_ protecting you," he says simply. "I will always protect you."

"Yeah? Well some job you're-"

He rushes forward, pinning her against the edge of her desk. "If I didn't die, you were going to die instead. You and Cho and Rigsby and Van Pelt. All of you. Slowly and painfully." He looks down at her, and Lisbon can see the torment and the heartache in his too blue eyes. "My family," he says, voice cracking, "all gone."

She doesn't know what to say to that, but she find herself wanting to touch him, to reassure herself that this is real, that he is solid and here and breathing. Lightly, she trails a hand over his elbow, the warmth of his skin seeping through her fingertips.

His eyes crinkle slightly at her touch and when she sees it she frowns.

"Then what are you doing now?" she asks. "Red John is dead. Why are you still hiding?"

Jane sighs and he sounds so very world weary that Lisbon finds herself leaning in toward him, wanting to offer comfort even after all this time. "He left behind a lot of followers, people he trained to become the next Red Johns of the world. I'm trying to track them down."

She doesn't even hesitate. "Let me help you." They are partners, will always be partners no matter what either one of them says or does, and their fates were tied together the moment she signed on with him. For some reason, this knowledge doesn't frighten her, and as they stand in her darkened office, barely inches apart, she's sure he can see _everything _in her eyes.

He takes a step back, shaking his head. "I need to do this myself."

Lisbon opens her mouth to argue. "Don't be-"

Jane presses a finger to her lips, shushing her. His eyes are suddenly warm as he smiles at her. "I will always come back to you, Lisbon. Don't ever doubt that."

"But Jane-"

He cuts her off with a soft kiss to her cheek. "See you soon, my dear," he whispers and then he pushes her office door open and melts into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the wait. This story seems to have developed a mind of its own and added things I hadn't originally planned. Apparently this will now have three parts to it instead of just two.**

* * *

_Grab your torch and follow me,_

_We'll burn the boats back to who we used to be._

**Neulore, 'Shadow of a Man'**

XXX

Lisbon comes home from work the next day later than usual, and it's so dark that she doesn't see the man sitting silently in front of her door until she's almost standing right on top of him. Her hand flies to her gun just as his deft fingers slip out and clasp her wrist.

"It's just me, dear."

Her posture visibly relaxes. "Dammit, Jane," she hisses, trying to hide the trembling in her voice, but he catches it and runs his thumb soothingly across her skin. "This was really the last thing I needed today." She realizes too late what that sounded like. Even in the dark she can see his face fall just a little, the light in his eyes dim.

His hand drops away from her arm and she misses the warmth instantly.

"Oh God, Jane. No, that's not what I-" Lisbon shakes her head, fumbling with the words. "I meant the heart attack you just gave me. I've had a rough day."

"Oh." The relief in his voice is palpable and sends something bright and hot skittering through her chest. "I just," Jane stops, his expression helpless. "I had to see you again."

Lisbon takes a step toward him, feeling the darkness press down around them. In any other circumstance it would feel suffocating, but here with him it feels liberating and strangely like coming home. "Jane," she says softly, reaching out to brush a hand against his sleeve.

Jane doesn't seem to notice. He runs a hand distractedly through his hair, his gaze locked on their shoes. "I tried," he says, voice ragged and tired. "I tried to go back to what I was doing and forget that I had seen you. But it didn't work." He looks up at her and shrugs, the corners of his mouth curling upward. "You're very distracting, Lisbon."

She smiles back at him, and _oh_ how she's missed this. "I thought nothing was too much for your famed concentration," she says archly, taking another step forward before she can stop herself.

"You are," he replies without missing a beat. "Especially now."

_Especially now_. The words catch in her throat, sweet and honest and raw. That implies things, lots of things, and she can already feel herself overthinking it, words and glances and gestures tangling together in her head.

Jane clears his throat, the noise making Lisbon jump slightly and pulling her from her thoughts. He's watching her steadily, _knowingly_, and it sends a shiver down her spine. "I should probably go," he says eventually, after a minute more of looking at her. And then he's pressing two fingers lightly into her arm and disappearing into the night again.

(But this is not the goodbye she wants.)

He's halfway to the street by the time she can get the words out.

"Or you could stay."

He stops with a jerk, turning around to face her. In the faint glow of the streetlight, Lisbon can see something fragile and breathtaking flit across his features. Then he grins. "Or I could stay," he echoes, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back onto his heels, waiting.

Lisbon shifts from foot to foot nervously, casting about for something to say that won't totally give away her desperate need for his presence. Jane raises an eyebrow at her silence. "I have tea," she says lamely, gesturing vaguely to her apartment.

Jane walks back toward her, pulls himself to a stop only once they are standing toe to toe. "Is that an invitation, Lisbon?"

She rolls her eyes and is just about to say something sarcastic when his fingers around hers stop her.

He leans in close, nose brushing against her hair as he whispers into her ear. "I'd love to stay, dear, thank you." He reaches around her then and pushes the front door open.

Lisbon's mouth drops open. "You-" Her nose scrunches up in indignation. "You _broke into my home_?"

Jane waves a hand dismissively at her. "You make it sound so illegal," he says, using the other hand that's still wrapped around hers to tug her forward.

She resists at first, trying to maintain the glare that's leveled at his head. "That's because it is."

"Technicalities," he says with a blinding smile and another tug on her hand.

This time she gives in, following close behind him as he pulls her into the warmth of her apartment and shuts the door behind them.

(There are things she wants to ask him, things she needs to say, but she lets him have this moment, lets things be bright and loud and wonderful just for this night.

She doesn't know it at the time, but this is exactly what Jane needs.)

XXX

The next time she sees him, he's sitting on her couch, weeks later, sipping tea, when she returns from a run.

"Jesus, Jane," she swears as she pushes her front door shut behind her and tries to calm her pounding heart. "You need to stop scaring me like this."

He turns around to smile at her, teacup half raised to his lips. "Today is a good day, Lisbon."

This is the Jane she knows, Lisbon realizes as she makes her way toward him. He looks younger, the sadness she's been so used to seeing lately suddenly replaced with something lighter and almost carefree. The smell of tea permeating the apartment makes something in the pit of her stomach ache with want.

"I missed you," she blurts out.

If possible, his smile widens even more. "I missed you too."

She flushes and ducks her head in response, shuffling her feet as she tries to decide what to do next. Jane's gaze slides across her shoulders, and she can feel it in the answering tingle of her skin. _She needs to get out of here before she does something reckless. _

Without looking back at him, Lisbon moves into her kitchen. The smell of tea strengthens and her eyes flutter shut for a moment. She never thought she would see Jane with a teacup clutched between his fingers ever again and it's overwhelming to suddenly have him back when she thought she had lost him.

From the next room, she can hear him cough, and she wonders for the umpteenth time if he really can read minds.

Lisbon clears her throat, trying to shake the gnawing feeling of loss that seems to have taken up permanent residence in her bones lately. "Why is today a good day?" she asks, snagging a bottle of water from the fridge.

"Well for one," he says, "I'm here, with you, drinking tea."

She swallows a gulp of water the wrong way and is left spluttering quietly until she manages to regain her composure. "And the other reason?" she finally gets out, voice a little shaky.

He pauses, seems to savor the words individually as they roll of his tongue. "I'm one step closer to finally being rid of Red John's minions."

Lisbon walks out of the kitchen and leans against the wall, arms folded across her chest as she takes him in. "Are you going to tell me what that entails?" she asks, but she already knows the answer.

"No," he says, placing his cup on her coffee table. "And don't even bother with that whole 'I'm a cop' thing, dear. It won't change my mind."

She frowns, but she's not surprised. "Will you do two things for me then?"

Jane's gaze fixes on her, his eyes clear and ocean blue. "Anything."

She can see his steady heartbeat pounding away in his neck, and all of a sudden she finds it hard to breathe. "Tell me how you did it," she says hoarsely, pushing herself off the wall and coming to sit opposite him on the couch. "Tell me how you faked your death."

He shifts so that he's sitting slightly closer to her, his hand along the back of the couch almost brushing her shoulder, and then he shrugs, his voice low. "I did cut myself," he says, rolling up the cuff of one sleeve to show her a spidery scar, "but it was shallow and not in the right place."

Lisbon's fingers brush over his wrist before she even realizes what she's doing and Jane's eyes slide shut at the sensation.

"Where did all the blood come from then?" she asks softly, trying to keep her voice steady but not quite managing it.

He opens his eyes slowly, gaze heavy with something she can't read. "The hospital," he says. "They had some of it stored away for medical purposes, just in case. It wasn't that difficult to swipe some of it. I had it hidden in my jacket, and when the time came I just punctured the bag..." He trails off, noting the unease on Lisbon's face. "The rest was really just a clever biofeedback trick and a well paid friend disguised as an ME who was willing to pronounce me dead."

She remembers the ME vaguely, a nice enough looking man who kept watching her curiously as she sat beside Jane's body and gave quiet instructions to the rest of the team. He'd handed her wipes so that she could clean the blood from her skin.

Jane's hand touches her shoulder lightly, pulling her from her thoughts. "Is there anything else you want to know?" he asks.

"No." Lisbon's voice is firm this time; she just needs the basics, not the insidious details. She doesn't want to know how much time and effort and thought went into making his death successful, making her think she had lost her best friend for forever.

Jane nods, seeming to understand. "What's your other request then?"

She looks at him, _really_ looks at him then. He is all scars and sun and tragedy, but he is _hers_ (and she is his), and that is what matters more than anything. Lisbon swallows roughly. "Be safe, Jane." It's a wish and a hope and an order all rolled into one and it makes him smile.

"I will, Lisbon. I promise."

XXX

She doesn't tell the team about him. Partly because she's sure Jane needs her to keep it a secret until he's finished with whatever it is he's doing and partly because she wants to keep him to herself.

The sixth month anniversary of the day she washed his blood out of her clothes comes and goes without any word from him. She starts to get antsy. Rigsby and Cho start trying to slip her decaf coffee when they think she's not paying attention. She begins having such a difficult time focusing on paperwork that Bertram starts mentioning her unused vacation days.

Finally, one day, Lisbon walks into her office and finds a huge vase of blue and purple hydrangeas waiting for her on her desk. Nobody knows who they're from and the card that accompanies the flowers is blank and unsigned. This starts about ten new rumors, all spiraling and spinning off one another, about Teresa Lisbon and her secret admirer.

But for Lisbon the message is clear.

_I'll always come back to you_.

XXX

Several days later, she wakes up and pads downstairs to make herself some coffee, only to find Jane asleep on her couch. The smile that pulls at her mouth is instantaneous and beautiful. She watches the early morning sunlight filter through his curls before carefully putting a blanket over him and then moving into the kitchen.

She returns to his side fifteen minutes later with a hot mug of coffee in one hand and a freshly brewed cup of tea in the other. He's awake by now, blinking owlishly up at her when he smells the tea.

"Five," he croaks tiredly.

"Good morning to you too," Lisbon says, handing him the tea and trying to ignore the warmth that spills through her chest when he clumsily takes the cup from her, his fingers sliding against hers.

He rolls his eyes affectionately at her and swallows a quick sip of tea. "Five more Red John disciples," he explains.

"Oh." She needs to sit down. "Five. Just five?" She lowers herself slowly into a nearby chair.

Jane nods, wrapping one hand around his cup in a way that Lisbon finds distracting. "He didn't leave behind hundreds of followers willing to continue where he left off. And the ones who are willing don't possess nearly the same drive or skill that he did." He nods again, as if reassuring himself, and then looks up at her with a cautious smile. "Five."

Her gaze drifts over his shoulder to the nearest window, where everything is sky blue and glimmering with sunshine. She can feel the hope lodging itself somewhere in her ribcage, curling pleasantly up her spine. "And then you can be alive again?" She's clutching her mug too tightly, and she can feel the hot ceramic starting to burn her palm and the pads of her fingers. Jane reaches forward and loosens her grip, plucking the mug from her grasp.

"And then I can be alive again," he says, tapping her knee to draw her attention back to him.

Lisbon can see her hope mirrored in his eyes, a dangerous, delicate thing that draws her in and drowns her all at the same time. (But she can't do this, not again.) Her fingers twist into the fabric of her jersey. "I just...I can't-" She stops, suddenly overwhelmed by all the things she'll have to go through again if she loses him this time for real. The pictures from last time flash before her eyes in a kaleidoscope of black and white smeared with red. His blood covered curls. The hazy funeral. The empty couch.

It will break her the second time around.

"Lisbon?"

She's shaking.

"I'm fine," she says, but the words are hollow and she can't quite meet his gaze.

Suddenly, Jane's standing in front of her, the morning sunlight catching in his hair and a promise hanging in his eyes. He rests one hand lightly on her knee, leaning forward until she's forced to look at him. "Everything will be all right, Lisbon," he says, voice sure and steady, "I swear."

She has no choice but to trust him.


	3. Chapter 3

**So, final part. It took a little longer than I thought it would, but here it is. **

**Thanks so much to all the people who commented, followed, and favorited this. I owe you all. You made my first real attempt at a multi-parter enjoyable and not at all scary.**

* * *

_My dear, _

_the end comes near,_

_I'm here._

**Pearl Jam, 'The End'**

XXX

Lisbon comes home that night to the smell of spaghetti and freshly made garlic bread.

"Wow," she says, leaning against the entrance to her kitchen and watching Jane handle some pots and pans. "He cooks."

He wipes his hands on a towel and turns around to face her. "What _can't_ I do?" he asks, reaching behind himself to produce a bottle of wine and two glasses with an exaggerated flourish. Lisbon raises an eyebrow as he grins cheekily at her. "You had a tough day," he says with a shrug, pouring a generous helping into one of the wine glasses and handing it to her.

Lisbon rolls her eyes. "That hardly means-"

"Shh." He waves a hand at her. "Drink your wine, dear."

She rolls her eyes again, but takes a sip of wine and slides into a seat at her kitchen table. With a pleased nod, Jane turns his attention back to mixing and straining things, and Lisbon suddenly finds herself able to watch him without being watched in return. Her gaze slides thoughtfully across the backs of his shoulders and down his arms to where the cuffs of his shirt are rolled.

He's different. Everything he says, everything he does, is somehow freer and lighter, unclouded by nightmares and revenge. Like he's at peace with himself, like a heavy, sickening weight has finally been lifted from his shoulders. But it's not just him, she realizes as Jane throws her a smile over his shoulder. _They're _different. There's something inevitable in the way he moves around her now, in the way they are constantly drawn back together.

It sends something tingling down her spine and straight to her toes.

A plate lands on the table with a dull thump, making Lisbon flinch.

"It's just spaghetti," Jane whispers into her ear before moving to sit down across from her. He smiles, gesturing to the plate in front of her. "Go ahead, Lisbon, experience the wonder of my cooking talents."

She scoffs at him and pokes dubiously at the food with a fork. Jane doesn't even give her the satisfaction of pretending to be offended; he just sits patiently and waits, a small smile chasing its way across his face. Eventually, Lisbon takes a small bite, trying to hide her reaction when she discovers just how good the food really is, and forcing herself not to devour the whole plate all at once.

Jane smirks. "That's what I thought."

They eat mostly in silence after that, and Lisbon, lulled by the good food and Jane's solid presence, drinks slightly more than is probably a good idea with said man around. He doesn't make any move to stop her either. If anything, he continues to refill her glass when it's only half empty.

She frowns at him between sips. "I know what you're trying to do."

He raises his eyebrows at her in a look that should be innocent, but comes off as anything but. "What are you talking about?"

Lisbon sets her glass down and picks up a forkful of spaghetti. "You're trying to get me drunk to lower my inhibitions, and then you're going to do something stupid which I wouldn't normally stand for." She says it casually, as though she's known all along that drinking with Patrick Jane would lead to such a scenario.

Jane smothers a laugh. "No, no, no. I don't want a drunk Lisbon on my hands," he says pleasantly, his hand sliding across the tabletop to gently brush against hers. "What I want is a warm and slightly happier Lisbon."

She arches an eyebrow and gives him a disapproving look.

He backtracks, recognizing his misstep. "You had a tough day at work, and I don't like when you're unhappy."

"So the solution is alcohol? And who told you I had a bad day at work?"

Jane shakes his head, ignoring the last part and focusing solely on the first question. "The solution is this," he says, standing up and moving toward her.

"What are you doing?" Her voice comes out a touch too high and she realizes that, ridiculously, she sounds terrified.

"Dance with me," he says, voice low as he takes her hands and tugs her up out of her seat.

The suspicion drains out of her, replaced by a warmth that sits high in her throat and tickles her tongue. Lisbon shakes her head at him, but doesn't resist, allowing him to pull her toward him and settle his hands on her waist. Around them, the glow of the lights in the room paints everything rich and golden, and above her are Jane's bright blue eyes, watching steadily. (She has never seen anything so beautiful.)

"There's no music, Jane." There's a laugh in her words, bubbly and wonderful, and it makes Jane grin in response.

"We could always put the Spice Girls on."

She smacks his shoulder lightly before letting a hand rest there, just above his heart. He pulls her in even more, impossibly close, and starts swaying slowly.

"See?" he asks after a moment. "This isn't so bad."

"Hmm," she hums noncommittally. Her head seems to have shifted so that it is pressed against the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, and nothing in the world could make her move. She likes this Jane. She likes this Jane _a lot_. He's close and smiling and he smells so deliciously like home cooked meals. Lisbon skims a hand over the back of his shoulder, laughing at his startled reaction when she comes in contact with the heated skin at the back of his neck. She can feel his sheepish chuckle resonate deep in her bones and slip between the spaces in her chest.

And then suddenly she's back in the dark warehouse, his blood slick between her fingers and his skin cold against hers. Dimly, she's aware of Jane saying her name and _oh God_, she can't breathe. A picture abruptly falls into place, too bright and sharp-edged against the muted colors of her present. It's of her and the team, surrounded by the emerald green grass of the cemetery, standing in front of a granite headstone. They're saying their last goodbyes, but the sun is all wrong and Lisbon doesn't understand why no one's crying.

"_Lisbon_." Jane's hands are warm against her cheeks.

She gasps for breath, and somewhere in the back of her mind she is vaguely aware of her crushing grip on the front of Jane's vest. His hands move from her face up into her hair, gently rubbing soothing patterns against her temples.

"It's okay," he whispers. "It's okay."

They're no longer dancing, and for some reason this strikes Lisbon as unmistakably sad.

"I can't-" Her voice is hoarse, and the words die in her mouth, rough and unpleasant tasting.

"I know," Jane says, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, and something in his eyes tells her that he understands. "It's okay."

Lisbon leans forward, pressing her forehead against his collarbone and trying to breathe normally for what seems to be the hundredth time in the past year. She's finally stopped shaking when Jane maneuvers her over to the couch and pulls her down next to him.

She falls asleep with her legs tangled between his and his voice soft in her ear.

XXX

Lisbon doesn't see him the next day or the day after that. Pretty soon a week passes without any sign of him and she starts getting anxious. She tries to remind herself that Jane is a grown man and that he can take care of himself. (But a part of him is still a shiny, golden haired, little boy and she will always want to protect him.)

Nothing really works.

One night in bed she accidentally lets her mind bump into the question of how she'll know if he dies during his quest, miles away from her in some anonymous town. The thought is horrible and morbid and she shies away from it quickly, but it's already too late. The images come fast and furious then. Jane in his ridiculous death trap of a car, the seats streaked with blood. Jane in the gutter, his face black and blue and unrecognizable. Jane on a dirty motel bed covered in red, red, _red_.

(She's already lived his death once. It's not too hard to imagine it a second time.)

She stops sleeping after that.

She knows the team can tell. Her eyes become sadder and more bruised looking by the day, and she no longer has the energy to chase murderers, let alone fill out the mind numbing paperwork that goes along with everything they do.

Van Pelt tries to talk to her about it first.

They're reviewing ATM footage in her office between bites of lunch, both hunched forward and squinting at the computer screen, trying to ID their man. After playing the video for the fifth time, Van Pelt leans back in her chair, stretching, every line of her body screaming weariness.

"Boss," she says after a moment, her voice quiet in the still air of the office, "are you all right?"

Lisbon doesn't look at her; instead she hits the play button on the video again. "I'm fine." She brushes a hand across the keyboard absently, her gaze fixed on the grainy black and white images in front of her. "Just frustrated that we can't tell if this guy is Noam or Asher Rosen."

Van Pelt shakes her head sadly, but Lisbon pretends not to see it. "That's not what I meant."

Lisbon lets the sentence hang in the space between them, glittering and untouched. (She can't do this. She can't talk about it.) Eventually, Van Pelt slides forward, moving back to her original spot at Lisbon's side and leaning in to focus on the video.

They do, after all, have a job to do.

Rigsby asks next.

Lisbon's standing in the kitchen making coffee when he appears next to her, swinging the refrigerator door open and reaching inside.

"You okay, Boss?" He's talking to the inside of the refrigerator, his voice nonchalant and half-muffled. It sounds so ordinary, like a question about the weather, that it catches Lisbon off guard. The pause between them says too much, and for a moment, there in front of Rigsby, she is all sorrow and bone crushing exhaustion.

And then everything snaps back into place as quickly as it fell apart.

"It's nothing a little coffee can't fix," she says too brightly, lifting her mug up to show him. His head is no longer shoved into the refrigerator, and there's something terrifyingly sad about the way he's looking at her. "I'm fine, Rigs. Really." She winces at the way her voice sounds, like she's neck deep in denial.

He notices, but doesn't call her on it, simply nods and then walks back toward his desk.

Of course, it's Cho's turn after that.

Lisbon's sitting in her office late one night, bent over some unfinished paperwork, when he walks in and stops right in front of her desk. She looks up at him reluctantly, her gaze slowly snagging on the illegible lettering of the papers around her. (She's so sure she knows what's coming next.)

"You need to go home and sleep."

She should have known that Cho would be the one to take the straightforward approach, and yet it still surprises her. Lisbon shifts in her chair uncomfortably, half heartedly rearranging her desk just for something to do with her hands. "I know."

He watches her thoughtfully, something in his face softening imperceptibly. "You can't," he says, realization curling its way into his voice.

"I can't," she echoes.

Cho pauses to think this information over, then he nods once, sharply, and reaches forward to sweep all the papers on her desk into his arms. "Go home. I'll finish these."

The look on his face says that he doesn't want an argument, so she obeys.

Later, when she's laying on her couch, trying to fight off the images of a battered and broken Jane that flit across her subconscious, it hits her just how much she loves her team. They have done so much for her in the wake of Jane's death and sudden reappearance, and...They are family. Without a doubt.

At some point, in the middle of this thought, she drifts off to sleep, her fingers wrapped around a blanket and a half formed plan to buy doughnuts for the team settling in her head.

XXX

Lisbon doesn't know how Jane knows, but he manages to call her on the day she finally reaches the end of her rope.

She's sitting on her couch, distractedly flipping through infomercials late at night, when her phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Lisbon."

His voice is like a punch to her gut, and it's not until this moment that she realizes how _homesick_ she's felt since she last saw him.

"Jane," she says, on a sigh that's full of relief. For good measure she says his name again, and the word crackles in her mouth, sharp with something she can't quite put her finger on. "Where are you?" she asks. For a moment, she pictures him in some remote, dusty town, wearing a cowboy hat and slouching against a telephone booth, trying desperately to look like anyone but himself. She almost laughs. He'd look ridiculous in a cowboy hat.

"You know I can't tell you that," he says, and Lisbon pictures him tugging the brim of the hat down until it sits just above his eyes, all mystery and danger. "I know you. You'll just come running after me and that can't happen. Not yet." He pauses, and somewhere in the distance behind him she can hear the low rumble of thunder. "Three," he says eventually. "Just three more people, Lisbon."

She runs her fingers along a crease in her couch, trying not to clutch the phone as though it will somehow bring him closer. "How will I know?" she asks, surprised when the question comes out sounding almost hysterical. She swallows roughly, counts silently to five, and then tries again. "How will I know you're not dead?"

The other end of the line goes completely silent, and when Jane finally does speak, his voice is solemn. "You're having trouble sleeping, aren't you?"

Lisbon doesn't say anything, and he takes that as a confirmation. "Okay," he says. "Okay. I want you to push everything away. All the thoughts about work and the worries about me. Just push them away."

She knows what he's doing, recognizes the warm and gentle tone in his voice.

Jane keeps going. "It'll be hard, but I know you can do it, Teresa. Once your mind is clear, you're going to breathe in and count one, then breathe out and count two. And then repeat. One, two."

_One, two. _Her eyes slip closed. "Jane?"

He sounds wistful. "Yes?"

"Come back soon." It takes everything she has to force the words out. She's so _tired_, and somewhere in the back of her mind she knows it's Jane's fault, but everything is fuzzy and spinning, and she can't remember why.

"I will."

He keeps talking after that, nonsensical, soft things, but they only push her deeper into sleep, and she hears none of it.

XXX

Days later, she walks out of work at a decent hour for the first time in forever and slides into her car, humming to herself and trying to remember if there are any leftovers hidden in her fridge. She's just turning the key in the ignition when Jane's grinning face appears in her rearview mirror.

"Hi, Lisbon."

Her yell is mostly incoherent, drowned out by the car horn when her hand accidentally slams down onto the wheel.

"Jane, what the _hell_?" she gasps, turning around to glare at him when she finally manages to get her breath back.

His grin stays firmly in place. "I missed you." That earns him a sharp punch to the shoulder. "Ow, what was that for?" he all but whines, rubbing his arm.

"_What was that for_?" Lisbon repeats, heat spreading quickly up the back of her neck. "You scared the life out of me, and it's been _weeks_," she says, the words bitter in her mouth. "I haven't seen you in _weeks_."

His smile falls, and he leans in close to her, eyes serious. "Three weeks," he says, holding up a hand to stop her when she starts to speak again so he can continue, "two days, fifteen hours, and three minutes. Give or take."

That doesn't fix everything, but it does knock some of the anger out of her. Sometimes, when he really tries, he can be so ridiculously sweet. She frowns at him, fighting to tamp down the forgiveness that's unfurling in her chest.

"And I'm sorry," he says, looking properly sincere. "I should have done more than call you the one time."

Lisbon crosses her arms. "Yes, you should have."

Jane's gaze drops to his lap. "I'm so close, Lisbon. So close to being done with this whole mess." He holds up two fingers. "One more and then it'll be over. And we-" he cuts himself off, glancing up at her almost shyly. "I need you to forgive me."

She sighs tiredly. "Jane, you weren't there-"

His hand slides along her wrist. "But I'm here now," he pauses, tugging at her elbow, trying to loosen her up with his touch, "and I'll always come back to you, dear."

She bites her lip to maintain her frown, but she knows he can tell from the way her shoulders relax that she's almost forgiven him. His smile is back, bright and charming.

"Now," he says, changing the subject deftly, "can we talk about your proclivity for violence? Some people might find it off putting that you meet every obstacle with a punch. Personally-"

Lisbon rolls her eyes. "Shut up." And she kisses him.

She puts what's left of her anger into the kiss, dragging her teeth along his bottom lip until she pulls a groan from the back of his throat. He tastes like tea and mint, and just knowing that sends Lisbon's pulse rabbit thumping through the roof.

After a moment, Jane rests his forehead against hers, breathless and suddenly so cheerful that she can feel the excitement buzzing just beneath his skin. He swallows. "Believe me, it was not my intention to seduce you when I hid in your car this afternoon."

Lisbon scoffs. "You did not just seduce me."

He smirks. "Didn't I?"

Somehow his fingers have found their way under her jacket, and he toys with the hem of her shirt, tracing a fingernail along the skin underneath. Lisbon leans forward to kiss him again and steer them away from what will no doubt end up being an infuriating argument, but Jane moves at the last minute.

"Is this going to be your new tactic?" he asks, hand tightening on her hip. "Throwing kisses instead of punches when something's not going your way? I can't say I'd complain. I just hope you don't start using it on suspects-"

"_Jane_."

There's a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Hmm?"

"_Shut up."_

XXX

A week later, she's doing dishes in her sink, bubbles and hazy afternoon sunlight catching in her hair, when she hears the door open.

"Lisbon?"

Something light and utterly perfect slides into her veins, coiling low in her stomach. It's him.

Jane's head pokes around the entrance to the kitchen, an infectious smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Lisbon, I'm home."


End file.
